


Good Riddance

by stillmadaboutpetra



Category: Carry On Series - Rainbow Rowell, Simon Snow & Related Fandoms
Genre: Blood and Gore, Body Horror, Character Study, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Fanart, Horror, Illustrations, M/M, Masturbation, Mutilation, Pining Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch, Self-Harm, Self-Hatred, Self-Indulgent, Sexual Fantasy, Suicidal Ideation, Vampires, individual chapter warnings, vampire adjacent stuff
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-04
Updated: 2021-02-12
Packaged: 2021-03-16 00:20:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,892
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29198268
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stillmadaboutpetra/pseuds/stillmadaboutpetra
Summary: “Those were my fifth-year fantasies: kisses and blood and Snow ridding the world of me.”Baz's self-destructive fantasies.
Relationships: Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch/Simon Snow
Comments: 27
Kudos: 46





	1. Cross

**Author's Note:**

> This is exactly what it suggests. some people....fantasize about the love of their life....murdering them...to cope????????????

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Specific content for - burns

* * *

When Simon Snow stepped into our room after his winter holiday with the Wellbeloves, my fangs dropped. Around his neck, a gold chain teased me. Snow made a show of fishing the cross out from his shirt and fitting it neatly beneath the lapels of his collar, staring me down like a thing he would slay. 

I carried it as a tension headache every day. I ground me teeth at night. And he - he sucked it into his mouth, teething it, nursing it, holding it like a babe at the nipple. Disgusting. A loathsome habit. Just another oral fixation for him to supplant his useless mouth, his unwieldy tongue; I could hear it clicking against his teeth, smell the spit amongst the gold. Refinery, smokestacks; it rattled around inside my skull like he panned for the gold daily, all rush, all brutal. 

If he were a smarter boy - if he were anything - if he were like me, he’d dare me into it.

He’d hold me down.

He’d kick my legs out and grip my chin and pry me open like a disobedient dog. 

Hold this for me.

In some fantasies, he presses it like a brand to my cheek. He holds it out cartoonishly, waving it at me. In some, I stretch my tongue out beggerly, receiving him, it, watering for the pain. 

Hold this for me like a good boy.

And we’d listen to my skin hiss. He would lick his lips at the smell of burning. I would die slowly, swallowing.

He - I - my mouth would close. I would drool blood and wound. I’d roll it around like a gift, savoring the cross. Let the corners cut me open, scar me from the inside out.

He would - in some fantasies - push me over and put his foot on my chest. He would clap his hand over my mouth. My nose. Smother me. 

Swallow it. 

I’d take it into the bottomless pit of my hunger. Sometimes swallow it whole. Sometimes, lie there, writhing, crying, and choke while he fished it back out by the chain. (let it slither free again into my waiting mouth, fuck the back of my throat with the pain of it.) It would tinkle like a christmas ornament. Sway back and forth from his finger like a hypnosis’s watch, ticking away and counting down.

Most of the time, I would let myself live. He would want to play again.

I ground my teeth at night and ground into my bed and envied that which he carried in his mouth. In fantasies of self-preservation, I choked him with the chain. But mostly, no, he choked me with it. 


	2. Rat Bite

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> specific warnings for: rat eating, hunger stuff, baz wanting to eat simon, talking about pulling out teeth

The hunger feels like a reward. A reminder that I'm alive. It feels inevitable. I sneak what food I can from the dining halls, but it's gone downhill rapidly. I have to figure something out; it’s impossible to think with Snow staring at me across the hall. Always staring. I told him to take a picture and he mouthed off like a moron about how I probably wouldn’t show up. I have abysmal taste. 

At this rate, I’m performing the world’s slowest vanishing act. I’m hungry for food and it shouldn’t be this hard to open my mouth. I want to go home where Vera will make me double stack sandwiches with crisps already tucked beneath the bread; slabs of roasted chicken and tomatoes and crisps and cheese and - I thought the blood would be the harder thing to handle. I can't open my mouth for a bloody roast beef sandwich. 

Bloody. Crowley.

The blood - I have enough blood. The blood is a squeaking scuttling thing. The blood is whiskers against my lips. Or, four little paws on my cheeks. A tiny spine I - I bite through the spines more often than I like. The ribs. 

Rats are so small. It's hard not to break them. Sometimes I bite all the way through. Sometimes I sink as deep as my molars. Sometimes, I chew. I know I’m doing it wrong when I chew. Pulping. 

They're like ketchup packets. A laughable thought but one I've had more often than I'd like. I take crisps down with me one night and play tea party with my mother's tomb. 

Wipe my mouth on the back of slick fur.  
Apologize for my bad manners.  
Spell the crumbs and the droplets away.  
Apologize for disturbing her.  
Apologize. 

But I'm hungry. I'm hungry mother. 

At least I can pretend I'm talking to her and not down here all alone. She'll keep me sane, won't she? I'm halfway to becoming a nursery rhyme. Here's a flower. Here's your son. Here's the vermin he's become. 

Someone should do something about the pest problem on campus. Did they learn nothing from the plague? Or are the rats here as symbolic reminders? (Am I?) They’re cleaner, these ones. They’re of different breed. Flea free, clear-eyed. Healthy. I don’t let myself hold them. No sense growing attached. They share my crisps. I suppose that’s alright. Fatter, grow fatter, fat enough to eat. Maybe they’ll taste better. Licking up crumbs. Crumbs for us, little ones. 

When rats find a new food source, they only consume it in small timely increments. It's a way of building resistance to toxins and poisons. They sample and starve. They check their gluttony.

Rats and I have a lot in common it seems. 

You are what you eat. 

I want to eat Simon Snow.

He would fill me up. I think I’d do very nicely as Simon Snow. Stretch his skin out a little, make him fit, wear him around school. Teach him some manners. I’d scurry my way down his throat, find the ways we fit together. Poor boy. He has no idea. I want to whisper it into his ear, cup my hand around the curl and curl and curl of him and - 

If my mouth was ever near his ear, I’d lick him, I’d suck his lobe, I’d hold him down and push my tongue into him until he cried for me. 

Just the thought fills my mouth with fang. Makes my face hot and plump like a cock, like a cunt. I drool a wet hole in hunger for him. He would slip into me. He would go down wetly. I think of swallowing a rat - the slurp of its tail, the wrinkled flesh. That’s not what I’m hungry for. No more small bones that floss my teeth. I want to be filled. I want something to gnaw on. 

Once I began, I wouldn't stop. There would be no measurement, no mediation. No mindful sampling and starving to stave off poison. I'm foaming at the mouth. I'm rabid-bound. Put me down. Mother, I am so hungry. I feed on the fantasy of him. 

Treacle thick, Christmas buffet. Boy boy boy. I lay in the shape of him, his empty bed, stretch my limbs out and grab the sheets and choke back slobbering mouthfuls of his pillow where his oily curls are beat into the school-issued cotton. He is the absence of luxury. He is threadbare. He is the naked essentials. He is skin and bones. (He is hungry too.)

One night he cums in his sleep, the hazy middle ground of dream and pleasure and the loneliness of waking up. He swears, huffing, fogging the air with the steam of his ejaculate, funk and tree sap. 

I don't know if it was his whimpering or the pulse in the veins of his cock or the smell of the blood bursting with orgasm - how he'd taste now - if I punctured him, so hot, would he singe against my lip - would he burst and bubble like meat in a frying pan. I can hear it now - grease fire. Flash in the pan. Caramelising. 

God I'm hungry. God I'm - I'm in his bed. He's in the shower. I'm in his bed rolling in it. He'll do his laundry by hand, drag it down to the basement. He'll sleep in it tonight. Will he shower in the morning? Will he leave it on his skin? The pink smell of it. A blush, a healed bruise, a broken vessel. 

I'll smell like him tomorrow. 

This hunger goes all the way through me. 

I spend five minutes pretending my way through the night. 

I go back to my bed. 

I pull myself out of my pajamas. 

I stay in his bed. 

I let him find me. 

I pant for him. Simon, I'm hungry. 

He would - he would know. He would know what to do. He's an idiot, but he knows monsters. He would know what to do with me. 

I know Baz. I know what you need. 

Yes yes yes. 

Yes-ssss. I slur on teeth. I stay in his bed and wait, gulping eagerly, glugging on my own anticipation. Stay right here. Stay stay stay. 

He comes out and - 

And I eat him. 

No. He comes out and he's naked and - he eats me. 

We make the bed a burial. 

I don't know any other way. He goes all the way through me. I take him into my mouth and he goes all the way through and - 

Baz, your teeth. I can't kiss you like this. 

(Kiss? Kiss?) (He would kiss me.)

My hand over my own mouth, the gaps of my fingers - a child playacting - poke my tongue through. Pinch myself. Keep myself company.

I'll fix it. I'll take care of it. 

He knows what to do with many-teethed things. I have them to spare. I have them in spades. 

He would be sweet about it. Make it all better. You don't need magic to pull a tooth.  
Pliers. A string around the doorknob. A well thrown punch. He'd take the bones out of my body. Press in the ruin of what he's made of me. Empty my skull until I’m just a pretty thing full of holes. 

Fill me up. 

He takes my fangs. I give them. He steals them. Rips them out. Loosens them until they hang by threads, the skin a velcro-tear. Leaves them dangling delicately and sucks on them, sucks them free, swallows them. 

He swallows one, I swallow the other. I spit them into his palm. Blood and saliva and teeth.

You take one, I’ll take the other. Put them on our tongues like acid tabs - like cure-alls. Snake oil. Rat bite. They dissolve, they fizzle. They are stones.

I’ll be just like you. He’d promise me. He’d become me. Want to feel you on the inside. I’d bite him from the gut out. I’ll grow roots inside him. I’m a seed. I want to sew him. 

Thank you. I knew you’d know what to do Simon. 

Why stop at just the fangs? I have so many teeth. Make me gum-soft; make my mouth newborn. He pulls them all, one by one, grubby fingers and split knuckles. He digs me out into cavities, into holes for thumbs to hinge me wide. He holds my tongue down. He unmonsters me. 

(He fucks my face.) (He is a man.) (I cannot picture it but I can hear it; choking, grunting. It sounds like me feeding. He doesn’t know he’s hungry for me. I’ll make him feel it. Want me. Want me. Want me too.)

What he does is - none of that. He goes back to bed, shower-wet, simmering with hormones, innocent, and I sleep facing the wall. 

(Right on his throat. One bite. All the way through. Blood, marrow, spinal fluid. Magic. I'd swallow him whole. Wipe my lips on his eyelashes that would tickle like whiskers and kiss what was left of him goodnight.)

It takes him two nights to do his laundry. Disgusting.


	3. Flush

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> content warning for: general violence, humiliation, urine  
> thank you unseelie for double checking that this was cohesive :,,)

* * *

I see a mirror of myself in Simon Snow’s blunt face. In the clamour of his morning routine, I open my eyes to him and see his eyes on me and we catch each other like this, pin each other, look and look and do not see each other. We are too busy looking at ourselves to see each other fully.

“Would you kindly shut the fuck up, Snow.”

He, with all his eloquence, kicks shut the door of his stand dresser so hard it bangs and swings open, the force too much - too much anger to solve a problem - he kicks it again, harder, cracking the wood. He flinches; he looks guilty; he stares at the crack with a twisted expression. He who has nothing and breaks what he’s given.

All he knows how to do is break things. He looks at the mirror of the crack and then snarls at me with the blame.

It’s too bloody early for his simmering rage. Such an angry child. So pent up. So wild. No one taught him any manners. No one taught him how to sit quietly, to be seen and not heard. You can’t not hear Simon. You can’t ignore him. He’s desperate for the attention and then he droops his shoulders when he earns it.

He’s desperate for me. For my attention. He wants to be seen, be heard. He wants me to look and look and look at him. Surely he must.

So I like to tell myself.

It’s an easy thing to tell myself, it’s so easy to believe.

“Aren’t you tired of stalking me?”

He’s cornering me outside of class.

“You were late.”

“Missed me?” I was talking to my other professor. I wasn’t late, I simply wasn’t early as usual. I do like to have a direct sight of the board and seating is thin with all the rabble these days.

I step left, he steps right. I step right, he steps left. It’s absurd. It almost makes me giggle. What would he do if I did - would he dance with me all day? Mirror me. If I offer my hand, will he? Or will he snatch me up? I almost bow to him. He wouldn’t know what to do with himself.

“I have places to be.”

He steps in and I don’t step back. I should. His proximity makes something noxious roll over in me, a sick spell of loathing and want. I want him closer; I want him so close he steps inside my body. I want him out of character and out of his clothes; the thought is too adult for me. I wouldn’t know what to do with him naked but look. Touch maybe. Taste him. Hold him in my hands like I do myself. Press my tongue to his soft spots. Find the places we match, find the places we differ. See how far the jagged edge of this mirror cuts.

He and Wellbeloved were sucking face in the grass the other day, wide out in the lawn. Simon ate her petite mouth like he did butter. She’d been red through and through after. His mouth had been a mess. It looked disgusting and I wanted to try it with him. Feel the work of his jaw, his pawing hands. How small she’d looked against him. How delicate.

I could be like that too. I could learn to do that too. I’d do it with him.

Wanting to kiss Simon Snow, really kiss him, has taken on a new form in my head. A new urgency. It’s an infection. It’s a disease he’s giving me with his proximity. I hate it. I shove him away and escape to our room. It’s not an escape at all. He dogs my heels. He slams up behind me. I want him to stop taking it out on the bloody furniture and slam against me; grab me, push me, try to hurt me so I can try to hurt him too. Offer me hand and be snatched.

“What are you doing?” he demands.

I lock the door to the loo. “Taking a piss.”

I make no move to the toilet, standing just on the other side of the door. It jumps on its hinges at the pound of his fist.

“Baz!”

“You’re deranged.” I press my cheek to the wood and wait for it to bang again. It does. It’s almost like being touched. “What, Snow, want to watch?”

“I don’t believe you.”

“Want to help me aim?” I shouldn’t say things like that. It sends him sputtering.

“Y-you - your - I wouldn’t -”

“Forgotten your housetraining then, is it? Need a refresher course? Surely you’d fail that too.”

“Shut up!”

“Go away. Let a man have his privacy. Or did they not have that at the orphanage?”

I think he breaks the door a little the next hit. I hear him curse; through the wood, I smell the lava of his blood. He’s split his knuckles.

“Shut the fuck up. It’s not an orphanage.”

Through the door, he’s safe from me. I can drag my tongue against the wood and pretend I’m licking him up. “Everywhere is an orphanage to an orphan.”

It’s dead silent. I rest my hand on the knob. I want to call his name. Come back. I’m only playing. I’m only teasing. Come back. Break down the door, Snow. Where’s your rage, little animal.

“Cunt.” He says at last, low and wet. He’s crying. Did I do that? “You’re a - you’re a fucking cunt, Baz.”

It’s nasty and mean, just like me. It hurts. It makes me throb. I don’t want him to cry. I want to watch. I want to hurt him more. I’m allowed to hurt him; it’s expected of me. We’re allowed to do this to each other. Break things. Hurt things. It’s all we’re asked to do. Hurt and break.

“Can a cunt do this?” I snap up the toilet lid as loudly as I can and when I piss, I squeeze my bladder, I really force it out; I feel dizzy with the noise, my own jettisoning urine impressing me. I didn’t have to piss that badly but now it’s the greatest thing in the world, an upending relief. Normally I’m so shy about this, so repulsed. I cast silencing spells on the bathroom. Hell, I cast silencing spells on the bathroom when Simon uses it; he’s never managed and it’s so…Normal it creeps me out, the sound of the body. I’ve never heard anyone in my family use the toilet. So uncouth. So lowly.

Now though - I widen my stance, lean into it. I think about him listening, crying, bleeding; I hope he’s pressed against the door. I hope he’s waiting outside to grab me. I hope he has to piss too and that this is making him squirm.

I am not delicate.

He would never put his mouth on me but maybe his rage would make him put his hands on me, even like this. Batter down the door and storm in to beat a cunt into me, to wild in his disappointment at my cock.

I look down at myself, my hand holding my limp cock, the stream tapering off as a tightness rolls through my gut. A strange arousal, like a single finger curling inside me, twitches my cock. Piss dribbles from the head, my bladder empty after the push, the whole thing over and done with and I’m breathing through my mouth, revolting in the moment. I feel - disgusting. Bizarre. Alien as I shake myself off and stare into the bowl, watching bubbles pop from the foam I’ve managed to build.

I reach for the flush before putting myself away and hesitate, twisting my hand around my cock. If I left it, would he look at it? Would he think about this - this forever? The yellowness of my urine, the smell of it; it’s as human as anything. He thinks I piss blood. He thinks I don’t piss at all. There’s your proof, Snow. I’m as boy as you. I do this too.

I wring a few more drops out determinedly, thrusting into the motion, nearly grunting. I’m going fat in my hand. I want to wipe my cock off on his face and stick it in his mouth to taste, to force him to realize. It’s nothing like kissing. It might be just the same. Make him red like he makes Agatha. Do it out in the lawn for everyone to see.

It’s crude. It’s - alarmingly crude. I tuck myself away hastily and wash my hands twice. Splash my face and grip the sink. I flush the toilet, hands shaking. When I eventually open the door, almost desperate, a babble worked into my mouth, Snow is gone and I’m grateful. I lock the door to our room, not that it does any good if Snow wants in, and strip off to climb into bed. A shockiness has gone through me, the queasy feeling from before returning.

Guilt. Sickness. Panic. I don’t want to do any of that, but the thought’s there in my head, the perversion of it, of me. Where did it come from? My imagination? A deep desire? I don’t want to piss on Simon. But the more I think of it, the harder it is to get away from. It’s easier to picture it than think of him naked. I don’t have to fill in the blanks. I’ve seen him sopping wet. He fell in the moat before. He doesn’t know weatherization spells.

He’d stomped around in soggy clothes, shoes squealing, dripping everywhere. I’ve seen him on his knees. I’ve seen myself pissing. I’ve seen him with his tongue out. The images come together too easily and I almost cry, shrinking from the thought. I don’t want to do that, so why is it in my head?

I’m sorry, Snow. I wouldn't. I swear I wouldn’t. He’d cry. Wouldn’t he? I would. I would cry. I think I’m crying now, hiding under my covers but I can’t get away from the monster because it’s in my head. He can do it to me instead. Isn’t that better, isn’t that less foul? Even he - he wouldn’t even do something that disgusting; he wouldn't have to. All he would have to do is hold me down, paw at me, press me into the lawn grass and -

Everyone could watch.

Hold me down.

Press me into the grass.

Make me red.

His hand on me, on my belly, pressing me until I burst, until I cried. Until I wet myself like a little dog. I’m hot between my thighs.

I wish I hadn’t gone to the loo. It would be so much better to imagine if my bladder were full. The tightness, the discomfort. The weight of his hand on me. The crack in the wardrobe from his kick. Make me burst, make me crack. I deserve it.

I get out of bed, sweaty, and go to the bathroom door. He didn’t break it, but there’s a streak of blood in the grain. I lick my thumb and rub it off; suck my thumb into my mouth and suck and suck.

I open the window for him that night because I don’t know how to say sorry. We don’t do that. When he goes to the toilet, I spell it silent. I don’t want to know. I don’t want anymore thoughts in my head. Leave me alone. Stop looking, stop listening. Leave me alone.

He doesn’t follow me for a week and I try not to miss it.


End file.
